The Moot
by Wordmage Kazzidae
Summary: Mostly an AsheTryn shipfic. Expect some artistic license, weird humour and character exploration. Oh - and shipping, of course. Rating changed to T just in case, although there are only two instances of anything even slightly mature.
1. Amongst the Snowbound Trees

He had beautiful antlers. Ashe had seen their like mounted on the walls of many fine halls. Indeed, she remembered just such a set in her father's hall – rather bigger and fancier than Ashe liked, though. From the number of points on this buck's antlers and his general physique, Ashe judged him to be in his prime, still young and full of vitality.

Her brow furrowed as she drew the arrow to full tension. It would take only one shot.

The stag trotted to a stop at the opposite edge of the snowy clearing. His ears pricked, searching for the sound of a threat.

Ashe made no sound by movement or breath. Her heartbeat was as slow as the grinding of glaciers.

The young buck swivelled his head around, looking for any predators.

Ashe was stiller than stone. In her white hooded cloak, hidden in the midst of the snowy forest, she was invisible.

He took long, deep breaths, seeing if the air carried any warnings.

Ashe was at a right-angle to the light, yet chilling breeze. Her positioning was perfect.

Having decided that he was safe, the stag lowered his antlered head, taking advantage of his perceived safety to graze on a tuft of grass amongst the snow.

A slight correction. The target had moved – the arrow-point moved accordingly.

Suddenly, the buck froze. A threat approached.

The moment was slipping. Ashe let the arrow fly.

The arrow missed the buck. As it raised its head to flee, the fletching brushed its nose.

On the other side, a grey blur sprang from behind a bush – and fell to the snow, lifeless, a shaft sticking out of its right eye.

A cry of confusion and dismay went up from the wolves, their alpha slain even as he leapt for the prey. Ashe nocked a second arrow just in case, the arrow vanishing from her quiver faster than most eyes could follow, but her first intuition had been right: one shot was all she needed. Having been struck at the crucial moment, the wolfpack retreated in disarray, dispersing into the forest beyond the clearing.

The stag started, but for some reason did not bolt. It was Ashe's turn to start when she imagined the stag looking right at her – but the moment soon passed, and it sprang away through the trees.

"Good job," said a gruff voice close by. "I never tire of watching you make a kill."

"You nearly ruined my shot," said Ashe coldly, returning the unused arrow to her quiver.

"What?" Tryndamere appeared from behind a nearby tree. "I was quiet! I moved exactly like you taught me."

"Quiet? I could've heard you even with a handful of bracken stuffed in each ear."

"Ouch," said Tryndamere jocularly, striding through the snow towards Ashe. "Your words hurt more than your arrows, my queen."

Tryndamere drew close to Ashe – and was surprised to find the Frost Archer's cool, soft lips pressed against his own (which were rather rougher). Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Tryndamere took his queen in a firm embrace and returned her affection.

Ashe looked up at her husband, smiled roguishly and said "What of my kisses, my king?"

"I think we can say that my wounds are balmed," said Tryndamere, equally playfully.

Ashe pulled back her hood with her free hand, the other eternally grasping her bow, and shook out her sable hair. She rested her head on Tryndamere's broad chest. The two of them shared a silent moment amidst the snowbound trees. It could have lasted forever, but of course it did not.

"They have arrived." This was supposed to be a question, but Ashe said it like a statement.

Tryndamere nodded, his chin gently bobbing against the top of Ashe's head. "Arna has brought an unannounced guest. A man swathed in black. I have no proof, but... I think he is from Noxus."

Ashe didn't even think to question this. She knew Tryndamere's past, though they rarely spoke of it.

"I was afraid of this. What of Alja?"

"She comes with few followers. If her face is a soothsayer, then the years since your departure have been hard for her."

Ashe didn't move, or say anything. Tryndamere knew anyway.

"You did it for the right reasons, my love."

"I know, otherwise I wouldn't have done it. But even the right action for the right reasons can breed wrongness."

"Then endure, my queen," said Tryndamere, raising Ashe's eyes to his with a finger under her chin. "Endure, and persevere. Have faith in what you have done, and what you have yet to do. As always, I will give you what strength I can: of my arm, and of my heart."

Ashe smiled at Tryndamere with true gratitude. "And for that, I will always love you – even past my death."

Tryndamere smiled back. "Undying love. I like the sound of that."


	2. The Moot Begins

Two words were sufficient to describe the air inside the Great Hall: tense, and hot. In the night outside the wind was driving snow down in droves, but inside there were fires everywhere: on torches which lined the great stone walls and glowing charcoal braziers, none more impressive than the one in the centre of the Hall, a great bowl of wrought iron which now contained the smouldering embers of what had been a great blazing bonfire at the beginning of the night. More wood was being brought to replenish it, but for now Ashe stared moodily into the flickering remains, reflecting dourly on how the fire's progression matched her own mood.

As was the custom on Moot Days, a great feast had been held in the Hall to celebrate the safe arrival of the visiting clans. Hospitality was in no short supply in Freljord, at least, not to fellow Freljordians: people who live in harsh environments soon learn to give generously to strangers coming out of the snow, for one day that stranger is likely to be you. The feast began as soon as the sun went down, so, the second the last glimmerings of the Lifegiver had vanished over the horizon (which is to say, the westernmost mountain; most of Freljord has no 'horizon' to speak of), burly warriors and blond-haired maidens clashed goblets in equal good cheer. There was much quaffing, mostly on the part of the men, but Ashe noted that Tryndamere held back a good deal more than was usual. She smiled fondly at the memories of several nights when the King of Freljord had made himself so drunk that he had performed rather unkingly acts, often in plain view right on the dinner table – but by that stage of proceedings his subjects were often as slaughtered as he was, so that was usually all right. Indeed, Ashe's decision to let Tryndamere perform his royal duty in their private chambers afterwards often hinged on whether she'd been at the mead as much as him: a slight blush mantled her milk-white cheek as she remembered several of _those_ nights.

The warmth of such nights was a comfort to her now. Although the room itself was quite hot, hot enough that many of the subjects present had taken off their furs, the atmosphere was decidedly chilly around the Mooting Table: everyone present could feel it radiating outwards from that centre like negative heat.

Ashe sat beside her King on the side of the circular Mooting Table farthest from the thrones, as was custom: by sitting at the Table she agreed to temporarily surrender her authority to another. The other three bound by this agreement were Ashe's sisters, Alja, who sat to her left, and Arna on the right, who had been joined by a strange man swathed in black cloth. Ashe suspected that Tryn had been right in assuming that this man was of Noxus: only in that blasted city-state did people go about dressed like that. In Freljord, people soon learned to dress in natural colours, preferably white – being covered in black cloth doesn't help your chances when you're pressed with your face against a snow-bank, fervently hoping that the nearby bear won't notice your presence.

Tryndamere's sword leant against the table, as did Ashe's bow and Alja's staff. Arna appeared not to have brought any weapons, and the stranger, by not placing any in plain sight, implied that he had not either, although Ashe didn't even trust this man as far as she could throw him. Who knew what he was hiding under those black folds? And those eyes... so sharp, like those of a hunter. She couldn't say much, having used eyes like those herself, but even so, to approach the Mooting Table with those eyes spoke volumes of his intent.

Resting on the Table in front of the only empty chair, the one closest to the thrones, was a hammer. Designed to be held with both hands by any man of average size, it was beautifully ornate, decorated around the head and all down the handle with carvings and gilding by master artisans, but it was still fundamentally designed as an implement for bashing things to pieces and could do that job right well should it be necessary. Its owner was not in evidence.

Ashe moved her attention to Arna, who sat beside the Noxian. She was much as Ashe remembered her, but... there were subtle differences. Ashe could see at a glance that the years had wrought their changes on the youngest of the Avarosian sisters: Arna had always been angry, but tonight she had a worrying look of smugness about her, like a trapper who looked to catch a rabbit and ended up getting a bear. Alja, too, had changed, but she was not smiling: her faced was lined like an old woman's, careworn and tired. Tryndamere had been right. Doubt once again assailed Ashe's heart: Had she been wrong to leave? Had she been gone too long? However, she soon cast these doubts aside – she knew in her heart that she'd done what she had for the right reasons, even if her mind still required convincing. One day, her people would see the good she had done for them, and for them alone. On that day, she would not ask for congratulations, or reward of any kind... maybe just a few hours alone with her King.

She let her eyes slide sideways to her husband, who was engaged in warily eyeing the black-swathed man. The Noxian appeared not to notice, although Tryndamere was as sure as could be that the stranger knew exactly what was going on. He had that easy, comfortable look to him: someone who was used to travelling, to dealing with strangers. As sure as Niflheim is cold, he was no ambassador – but by the twisted standards of these Noxian bastards, one could argue that he was a 'diplomat'.

Tryndamere started, realising that his wife was looking at him, and turned to her, a question in his eyes. Ashe allowed herself a small smile.

"Impatient to be over and done with this, I take it?" she asked softly, not wanting anyone other than themselves to hear their conversation. After all, they were royalty in front of their subjects.

Tryndamere shifted in his seat, letting some of the weight fall from his shoulders. "Aye, you wouldn't be far wrong saying that. It's like lying in wait in the brush at the beginning of a League match. Not to mention the way Arna is smiling... it reminds me of Shaco."

Ashe grinned at the thought – and then stopped when she realised that the comparison was disturbingly well-chosen. Arna had the look of one about to profit from another's demise and enjoy it immensely. Indeed, the years had not been kind – to either of Ashe's sisters...

"When is the Holder going to get here?" said Tryndamere, mostly to himself and mostly out of frustration. Ashe could tell he had little patience for formality or tradition, but deferred to Ashe's opinion that observing such codes was what made their rule legitimate. After all, some of them were in place for tried and tested reasons. "I thought I told that grey-maned old fool to-!"

The massive doors at the foot of the room swung slowly, ponderously open, their mighty stone and metal hinges grinding only slightly (the money Freljord's champions brought in was good for fixing doors, if not sisterly love) as the huge wooden slabs opened into the night. The bitterly chill air howled into the room like a gale of daggers, causing the clanspeople to clasp to themselves furs which had been tossed aside and forgotten in the festivities. However, they did not open all the way, for they did not need to: only one man sought to gain entrance. Ashe swivelled in her seat, as did everyone else present – even the Noxian, Tryndamere noted, whose eyes flashed at the new arrival.

Ashe smiled. An old friend had just arrived.

He was a giant of a man who looked as though he'd been carved out of the living rock of the Freljordian mountains themselves. The bulging muscles of his arms, which had a suggestion of the tectonic about them as they moved, had just finished the job of opening the doors entirely on their own strength – no mean feat for a man on his own; it usually took at least four men, two to either door, pushing with all their strength (from the inside, naturally; one could pull it open from the outside using the big metal rings, as the giant man had just done, but not even the coldest-hearted of regents would force their guards to keep watch _out_side on a night like this). He strode into the Great Hall with steps that must have sounded to the very depth of the earth; they definitely resonated throughout the Hall, causing every one present to gawk at him as they shivered in their furs.

The giant man looked around at them with eyes that glowed like coals from under the eaves of his chiselled brow, which furrowed slightly in annoyance.

"Well?" His voice boomed – not even the hissing banshee wail of the wind could out-shout him. "Is no-one going to close that blasted door? It's freezing in here."

There was a ripple of relieved laughter at this from the assembled tribes, who then went to chatting amongst themselves, most of them asking of each other exactly who this man was. The guards gratefully scuttled to the doors, heaving with all their might, until they finally ground closed.

The giant man continued on down the path that had been cleared for him with a stride that could have overstepped smaller mountains. Ashe stood to greet him, as did all the others at the Mooting Table... save the Noxian.

"Grimnir!" Ashe ran to the giant man and embraced him, although the gesture is strictly symbolic when the object of the embrace has a body as wide as a tree-trunk.

A couple of the nearby tribesmen who saw this exclaimed in delighted laughter. Tryndamere, on the other hand, blinked in astonishment – this giant would have been a match for Cho'Gath, and Ashe was _hugging_ him?

Grimnir laughed heartily, the sound bouncing between the highest rafters of the Hall, and gently laid a hand on the Frost Archer's shoulder. "Little Ashe! Even after all these years, you greet me as you did when your hair was still in pigtails."

"I could never forget you, Uncle Grim," said Ashe, pulling back so that she could beam up at him. "I forgot how much I missed you."

"Yes, well... much has been forgotten that will hopefully be remembered on this night." Grimnir turned his gaze on Tryndamere. The Barbarian King could feel the weight of the giant's eyes on him, seeing his worth, judging him. He stood his ground, looking back warily.

"King Tryndamere. I have heard much of you, and of your exploits. I was not available at the time of Ashe's marriage, otherwise I would have officiated it myself," said Grimnir solemnly. "However, I can see that she chose well, and would not gainsay her, then or now." He offered one huge hand to Tryndamere. "I offer you my friendship. I would have you accept it, for Ashe's sake, if not your own."

Tryndamere looked at the hand thoughtfully. It wasn't so much the thought of accepting Grimnir's friendship that worried him; more the prospect of shaking hands with a man who looked like he could flatten a wolfhound by patting it on the head – nonetheless he accepted the proposal, and was surprised to find that Grimnir's touch could be surprisingly subtle.

"I am glad to receive the friendship of one so close to Ashe," said Tryndamere, "and someone she has yet to tell me of," he added, smiling jocularly at his wife.

"I am sure there shall be time aplenty for that later," Grimnir boomed. "It is good to see you again, Ashe, but I must meet the others. Alja, my poor dear... you do not look at all well."

She mustered a wan smile, the creases on her face as it formed very visible. "Is that so, Uncle? I suppose this latest winter must have been particularly harsh on me."

He leaned closer, and whispered into Alja's fragile ear, again exhibiting surprising softness for a man of his size and strength by being only barely audible to Alja herself. "Just be careful, my child. There are some ills that even your magics cannot heal. I would be sorely heartbroken were I to hear of your passing. Unlike me, you are still so young, and have much yet left to do." He laid a hand on Alja's forearm as it rested on the chair, and Alja laid her other hand on top of his in a gesture of fellowship. "Please, do not waste what life remains in you."

Alja's smile grew a few degrees warmer. "Thank you, Grim. You always did know how to make me feel better."

"It is my pleasure." He unbent and went around the table to Arna. "And last, but not least, the littlest sister-"

"You know I hate it when you call me that," said Arna, glaring up at Grimnir. "Why do you say I am not least if you call me little?"

Grimnir spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "I call Ashe little as well."

"But you call me littl_est_. You always did think the least of me."

"I loved all of you equally, as I did your parents before you. I would attempt to make my peace with you on this night, but... there are some things which cannot be fixed so easily." Grimnir turned to the man in black. "I see you have invited a guest to join us at the Mooting Table." The Noxian continued to stare straight ahead.

Arna's grin returned with a vengeance. "Yes, I have. He is a close associate of mine, and to be considered an ally of Freljord."

"Then surely he may reveal his face to us without fear?"

"He dresses so because he comes from much warmer lands than ours, and must remain like this at all times, even indoors, for fear of being caught by the deathchill," said Arna. Her grin told Grimnir that this was a barefaced lie. Grimnir let it pass without comment, although his gaze did linger on the Noxian longer than was strictly necessary. The stranger remained perfectly still all throughout.

"Then, as he is your guest, he may remain. However, he is still an outsider, and one who may not be aware of our customs. I ask merely that, while he sits at this Table, you will help him to observe the proper rites of the Moot. Is this understood, Arna?"

"Of course." Arna's smile was sickeningly sweet. Ashe didn't trust it one bit.

"Very well." Grimnir moved away to take his seat at the head of the table.

Grimnir took up in one hand the great hammer that lay before him, raised it high, and then brought it down. It descended like the wrath of a vengeful god, slamming into the Mooting Table with an impact that would have levelled a mountain. The Table, miraculously enough, held – and what was more, hadn't even sustained a single dent. It was ages old, far older even than the Great Hall itself, and with that age it had collected a strength even Grimnir did not possess.

The hammerfall was more than enough to attract the attention of every soul in that room. "People of Freljord, esteemed witnesses of this Moot, I bid you heed my words!"

There was silence. It was so absolute that you could hear the coals crackling in the brazier, and, ever-present, the wind's shrill shriek as it attempted to get inside and was eternally denied.

Grimnir smiled, very slightly, to himself. He continued.

"I thank you all. My fellow Freljordians: you have all gathered here today to witness this Moot. By your good grace, you have chosen to elect me as the Moot Holder, as it is widely known that I share equal love for each one of the Sisters of Avarosa, and that I could therefore never show prejudice against any one of them. In trusting this duty to me, you say that I have the wisdom and temperance necessary to see that justice is done on this night. Do you say so?"

"Aye!" The word was spoken as one by all those not seated at the Table. They lined the walls, filled the benches, littered the floor. They were hunters, skinners and tanners. They were lumberjacks, saw-millers and carpenters. They were miners, foundry-workers and blacksmiths. They were the people of Freljord, there to witness the fate of everything they knew and loved.

"Then the Moot is ready to be held. All are here assembled; the Circle is complete. Are all at the Table in agreement on this?"

"Aye," said Tryndamere.

"Aye," said Arna.

"Aye," said Ashe.

"Aye," said Alja.

Grimnir looked to the Noxian, who maintained his stony silence. He merely nodded.

"Then, with the assent of all present, I declare this Moot begun."

The hammer rose and fell.


End file.
